


In a Crowd of Thousands

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Anastasia (1997 & Broadway)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28570419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: Alistair and Elissa met once before the Blight. A long time ago, when they were only children. For her, it was but a moment; for him, it was a light in the dark.(Inspired by the song ‘In a Crowd of Thousands’ from the musical "Anastasia")
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. One

He’d slipped the guard that was supposed to have been watching him.

It had been almost laughably easy. The man in question had been far more interested in wooing the attractive young stablehand taking care of the horses than actually watching his charge. That, and, of course, the guard couldn’t possibly know about the hidden, almost perfectly Alistair-sized, hole in the back of the tack store.

Any other day he was likely to be caught by someone else in the bailey before he could make it to the underground cellars, but today, today he reasoned he could probably get away with it, thanks to all the hustle and bustle in the courtyard.

He’d never seen so many people at Redcliffe castle. So much haste and fuss, and all for that woman. He didn’t like her much, but that was probably because every time he was near her she looked at him like he’d just trampled mud across the rug.

And he hadn’t, he’d _checked._

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to be honest. He wished someone would tell him so that he could apologise and then perhaps they could be friends. That’s what he’d hoped for when Eamon had first told him he was to be wed. A friend. Or something more, if he were very, very lucky.

He’d always wondered what it would be like to have a mother.

He had a father, of course. Two, if you counted the real one and the man he _thought of_ as a father, but not a mother. Unless you considered Cook, but she spent most of her time shooing him out of her kitchen and only occasionally giving him a pastry if he was very good. He wasn’t sure that really counted.

He’d been on his very _best_ behaviour when Eamon had introduced them. Bowed low just as he’d been taught and presented her with the posy of flowers that he’d picked that morning.

Girls liked flowers, or so he’d been reliably informed.

But Isolde had cast them aside almost instantly.

Maybe he’d picked the wrong ones or something. Or maybe she just didn’t like flowers.

If there was one good thing about all the bother and fuss, it was that no-one was particularly concerned with what he was up to, or particularly inclined to stop him as he raced through the courtyard and down to the cellar where he kept the toy soldiers he’d made and the golem doll that Eamon had once bought him.

However, instead of the damp, slightly musky, echoing cellar in which he was accustomed to playing without much bother, he found another hive of activity. Cooks, butlers and stewards all hurrying about storing various wines and food and other supplies.

Maker, just how many people were needed for a wedding?

He’d been told that some very important guests would be coming, and that he was to keep out of sight as much as possible. But he’d assumed that all such people would be confined to the upper rooms, and he’d be able to go about his usual business in the small, forgotten places of the castle without interruption.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Maybe it was an Orlesian thing.

Feeling a little upset and hard done by, he resolved instead to sneak into the town. He wasn’t supposed to go alone, but if he could make it down there without someone noticing, maybe he could find some of his friends in the village. Perhaps even have a mud fight with the sons of the trader that came by every few weeks.

(Or, as he and his friends liked to call them, their arch-nemeses.)

Getting to the village wasn’t too difficult. It was a short walk and, with the number of people going back and forth, everyone just assumed he belonged to someone else on the road. But when he went to his friends’ houses he found that none of them could play today. They were all needed to help their families bake, or clean, or decorate the village in preparation for the wedding.

The _wedding_.

Defeated, he slumped off to the edge of the lake. If he couldn’t play in the cellar, or with his friends, then at least he could have some fun splashing about in the mud.

He was halfway through building a mud version of Redcliffe castle when he was discovered by the strange, mad old storyteller who lived in the village.

“What are you doing, child?” she asked kindly.

“Playing.”

“By yourself?”

He nodded, trying not to feel upset by the fact that no-one else had been able to play and still no-one had noticed his absence from the castle.

“Would you like to hear a story?” she said, settling herself down beside him in the mud when he nodded again.

He kept building as she weaved her tale of forgotten kings and brave princes. Half-listening, half-concentrating on his task, and fully appreciative of the fact that at least _she_ was trying to make him feel better. She even went so far as to pretend to have one of her ‘visions’ telling him that he had a great destiny, like that of the prince in the story and that part of his destiny was drawing near.

When her tale was finished, he thanked her because it was polite, but no-one ever believed mad old Esmerelda’s tales.

“Come, child,” she said. “We’d best get you back to the castle.”

He wanted to argue of course, but no-one argued with Esmerelda, so instead he meekly stood and followed her back up to the castle.

At least she delivered him to Tegan, rather than to his no-doubt furious guard or to Eamon himself.

“How in the Maker’s name did you get so filthy, lad?” Tegan asked, his voice firm but his eyes alight with amusement, as soon as Esmerelda had left.

“I was building fortifications in the mud,” he answered truthfully.

Tegan raised an eyebrow. “Were you now? Well, I’m sure they’d stand up to any siege, but you best get cleaned off.”

“I don’t want to,” he said stubbornly, suddenly quite angry at how today had turned out. It wasn’t _fair._ He’d tried to be good but there was nothing for him to do and no-one who _cared._

“Now why not?” Tegan asked him. “What’s wrong, lad?”

He hated the stupid tears that sprung to his eyes as he struggled to articulate what was wrong. He wasn’t sure he actually really knew, if he were honest with himself.

“I don’t like her,” he said, after a while. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a large part of it.

“Who?”

“ _Her.”_ He used his muddy sleeve to wipe his eyes, only managing to make himself even filthier.

“Isolde?” Tegan asked.

Alistair nodded.

Tegan glanced behind them before dropping to his knees in front of him. “Can I tell you a secret? I don’t like her either.”

“Really?” Alistair sniffed. Tegan had always seemed so friendly and polite around her. 

“Really. But she makes my brother happy, and we want Eamon to be happy, don’t we?”

Alistair nodded. He _did_ want Eamon to be happy; he just wished that marrying _her_ didn’t make him so.

“Good lad. Now why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up? There’ll be a parade of important people arriving later and that’ll be fun to watch from the road, won’t it?”

He genuinely brightened at that.

A few years ago, when King Maric and Prince Cailan had visited, there had been a long parade of soldiers, colourful banners, mounted cavalry and fancy carriages. He remembered watching the whole thing approach from his place beside Eamon, but he’d thought at the time that it would have been far more fun to have been able to join in with the crowds that lined the road, cheering.

This time he wasn’t going to miss out.

Racing to his room, he stayed only long enough to dump a bucket of water over his head and change his clothes before running back to the road.

He heard them before he saw them. Men in armour were rarely quiet and their tramping echoed over the hill.

Pushing through the crowds, he elbowed his way to the front and watched in amazement as the rows upon rows of armoured men marched by in perfect unison. Two lines of them, shining bright and bearing a banner he recognised as belonging to house Cousland. Behind them came the cavalry. Fewer men than the king had brought with him, but still impressive and behind them…

The carriage was gilded and sparkled in the sunlight. Its horses wore plumes of blue feathers and had sapphires sewn into their tack, but all of that paled in comparison to the girl who sat in it.

She sat straight, her chin tilted upwards, emulating the imperious look of most nobles, but her eyes darted everywhere, taking in the castle, the crowd and everything else with unrestrained glee and a mischievous twinkle.

He couldn’t say how he knew, but he felt instantly that here was someone who had as much of a penchant for causing trouble as he did.

Without intending to, he found himself running along to keep up with the carriage and the girl, dodging in between the crowd and the guards until finally he’d gotten a little ahead. Recklessly, he pushed past the guards lining the road to keep the crowd back.

Just to see her better.

As she passed, their gazes locked, and in that moment he felt more understood than he ever had in the entirety of his young life.

He sketched a bow. The best he could manage, which, if he said so himself, was pretty good after all those months of lessons Eamon had made him sit through before King Maric and Prince Cailan had visited.

He wasn’t sure _why_ he was bowing, only that of everyone he’d ever seen, ever met, if anyone seemed worth bowing to then it was the girl with laughing green eyes and vibrant red hair.

Her grin only widened, absolute joy sparking in her eyes for a moment before she composed herself and offered him one graceful nod in return.

A princess, or perhaps a young empress, showing gratitude to her subject for the deference that was her due. Not that he knew who he was, beyond that she was a Cousland, probably, but he felt like he’d be quite happy to serve her in whatever kingdom she’d one day grow up to rule.

He grinned at her as he rose, eyes still fixed on hers as the carriage moved on. He had half a mind to run after it again, to see if he could find out her name and perhaps offer to show her the town. But before he could even take a step one of the guards he’d pushed past was turning him gently but firmly back into the crowd and he lost sight of the carriage entirely.

Months later, in his cold, hard bed in the Templar recruit barracks, his ears ringing with a combination of the hard knock over the back of his head the training master had given him for his lip and the general clanging of swords and armour that had become the backdrop to his life, he thought about that girl.

Remembered her laughing eyes and glorious red hair, and wondered who she was and what she was doing now.

He knew that he would probably never have the chance to find out. Not now he was here instead of the castle. But he held onto the memory anyway.

The last good moment he had had in Redcliffe.


	2. Two

“I think I met you once before you know,” he said.

He’d been meaning to mention it for weeks. It was probably something that he should have mentioned when he’d first realised it, shortly after they’d met.

If not then, perhaps he should have told her after he’d explained who _he_ was and where he was raised. But some part of him had still held back, even as he’d rejoiced at not only knowing the _name_ of the girl he’d seen so many years ago, but also getting to _know_ her and finding that she was every bit as wild and mischievous and wonderful as he’d envisioned.

But somehow, now that he knew she felt the same as he did, he finally felt able to say it. He wasn’t _entirely_ sure why that made the subject easier to bring up, but for some reason it did. Maybe it was because a part of him had known, even at ten years old that he would grow up to love her, and he hadn’t wanted to risk revealing the depths of his feelings for her.

“You did? When?” An adorable frown crinkled her brow.

He took a deep breath. Not sure how much to confess to her. Telling her that they’d met when they were young was one thing. Telling her that he’d remembered that moment almost every day in the Templar barracks and the Grey Warden camps afterward was maybe a little much.

Even if he didn’t _intend_ to tell her the second part there was a very good chance it would come out anyway. He had a terrible habit of blurting out things he’d never actually intended to _say_ when she was around.

“Do you remember the day Eamon married Isolde?” he asked quietly. Watching as that adorable frown appeared on her face while she cast her mind back into past.

“Not well,” she admitted, after a moment. “I would have been …nine? I _do_ remember the lecture my mother gave me before we rode into the city, about sitting straight and minding my manners.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. Somehow now that he knew her, the fact that she had only sat so regally that day because her mother had lectured her made so much more sense.

“I remember… riding through the city.” She stared into the flames of the campfire. “It was the first time I’d seen Redcliffe. All the people had lined the road and…”

She stopped, her gaze moving abruptly from the fire to his meet his eyes.

“There was a boy. He was... covered in mud, and his jacket had a rather large hole in it. He… he bowed.”

Alistair smiled, bowing before her in his seat. “At your service.”

To his surprise, she laughed. Not a light chuckle as might have been warranted by such an action but a full-blown uproarious laugh.

“I thought you were a street urchin,” she spluttered.

“Really?” he said, laughing along with her. “I thought you were a princess.”

She blushed, which only made him want to kiss her desperately. Her blush had always been charming, even more so when he was the cause.

“No. Just a Teyrn’s daughter.”

“Nah,” he breathed, staring deep into the deep green of her eyes that now shaped his entire reason for living. “You were a queen.”

The implication of that statement didn’t escape him. He still did not want to be king, and they hadn’t discussed it much after Eamon had initially suggested it, and so she was still blissfully unaware of the fact that _she_ was a big part of why he _didn’t_ want it. He hadn’t yet found the words to tell her, mostly because he was a snivelling coward who was too afraid of losing her to voice it.

But it did occur to him now that if it were possible, if they could _be_ together… that she would make a phenomenal queen.

As a child, he’d believed that he would have been happy to serve her in whatever kingdom she would one day rule. For there had been no doubt in his mind then that she was destined to be a ruler. 

Now that he knew her, now that he _loved_ her, that fact was more true than ever. If, somehow, he could bring it about he would gladly serve her for the rest of his days. As queen, or as warden commander… it didn’t matter.

So long as they were together.


End file.
